


It's Only a Game

by eravicis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eravicis/pseuds/eravicis
Summary: AU. In a world where Molly Hooper is set up on a blind date by her friend Mary and she's not quite sure how to feel when she realizes it's Sherlock Holmes. Seeking a means of revenge on their mutual friends so that they wouldn't be set up on another date like this again, they both decide to fake the relationship and make sure they end the relationship disastrously. But when their lines begin to blur, they start having a difficult time figuring out what's real and what's fake.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my first foray into the Sherlock fandom (Sherlolly in particular)! I apologize for all of the typos and grammatical errors as I had no one to beta read for me. I know very little Brit speak so I apologize if I get some things wrong. But, I hope you enjoy reading and thank you for giving this a chance read. Please also let me know how you like it! Feedback would be absolutely darling.
> 
>  _Sherlock (TV series)_ and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright, and trademark of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC Network, and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright, or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to the doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fanfiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.
> 
> In other words, I own nothing but the plot.

Molly Hooper is going to kill Mary Morstan. At least, kill her so they could never find her body ever again for a very long time because this is ridiculous. Dressed as nice as Mary has obviously approved with a stylish flair that she wouldn't have picked herself, she adjusts her bag and pulls out her mobile phone. It's just starting to get quite cold out so she knows that the jacket she wears is perfect for such a weather. Still, it doesn't change the fact that she pulls the jacket a little closer to herself and she sighs.

Her phone rings and she's eagerly swiping at her screen when she spots that it's Mary.

"Mary, where are you?" she asks.

"Oh darling, I'm so sorry," she immediately says that Molly feels the color drain from her cheeks and she grits her teeth.

She sighs and places her hand delicately on her cheek. "Don't tell me—you can't make it." She doesn't hide the disappointment since her own friend is basically standing her up, and what's more, making her dress for a special occasion when it seems no longer to be the case. "Oh, Mary, are you alright?"

"Perfectly fine, I just can't make it. I'm so—"

"Good because I'm going to kill you. Mary, we went shopping for this and…"

"I know, I know—I'm so sorry. Something's come up and I honestly won't be able to make it; I swear."

"If you can't make it, I'll just head back then," she grouses, moving to standing as she's ready to depart from the restaurant that she's standing in. Judging from the look of the person standing at the podium, she moves closer to the door and off to the side to continue the conversation to avoid what feels like a pitiful look.

"No, no, he'll be there shortly so don't leave okay? Now, I have to go darling; I promise I'll make it up to you."

"Wait, he?"

"Text me, Molly, and let me know, okay?"

"Mary!"

And the phone goes dead and she resists the urge to throw her phone. Instead, she angrily stuffs it into the bag she's picked just for this occasion. She has half the mind to leave when her phone beeps and with an aggravated sigh, she retrieves her phone to read the incoming text.

**The reservation is under Sherlock Holmes.  
Mary**

Sherlock Holmes? The name rings a bell but she's distracted when a deep baritone speaks to the waiter. "Reservation for Sherlock Holmes." Her eyes flit to a tall man in a long Belstaff coat with broad shoulders. Her eyes widen as she hurries over to stand behind the man and just off to his side.

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes, table for two?" the server asks absently with a polite smile that she almost feels bad for what happens next.

He nods his head subtly before pausing and from where Molly stands, she watches as the server flinches under what she could only assume is a glare from Sherlock. "No, it should be a table for three."

The server could only helplessly shrug when Molly taps the stranger on the shoulder and she's knocked breathless by his eyes when he turns to face her and she swears her heart has trouble focusing on beating when it picks up speed. There's a hinted question that looks her over and much like the server, flinches under his unrelenting and piercing gaze that she feels sees through her jacket and heart. Steeling herself, however, she takes a small breath and says, "Hullo, it's nice to meet you and um, I can explain."

There's a look in his eyes that says something she can't quite decipher but the server seems to take this as a positive thing and even has the gall to cheerfully quips, "Okay, all accounted for—right this way!" They pick up two menus and leads them to the table.

Led to a table that's in a comfortable corner of the restaurant for privacy, they both strip themselves of their jackets and sit. The menus handed to them, their server comes over and introduces themselves as Jane. When asked what to drink, they both answer:

"Ah, tea please."

The server nods when the pair exchanges a look but the server seems happy and departs, leaving the pair alone.

Molly takes this time to glance over at the other. Well, at least Mary knows her type, apparently because this man is absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful might even be more accurate with dark curly locks with a wild touch and eyes that—when she takes a closer look—can't seem to settle on blue or green with a pale complexion. He has high cheekbones that make his face angular and yet, Molly can't seem to find any fault in his features. With his jacket and scarf removed, he has a lean body underneath a pressed suit of black with a light grey dress shirt… Hm.

Molly inwardly sighs, however, contemplating if it's a good idea to continue with this dinner at all when he seems otherwise bored to be here, judging by how his gaze seems to look anywhere but her. Plus, he hasn't asked her to explain the situation like she thought he would. He seems disinterested with the whole thing and even appears to be bored.

"You're thinking too loudly," he says, interrupting her flow of thoughts.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're thinking too loudly—if you have a question, ask." His eyes finally move away from the people around them to the menu before he closes it and sets it aside. He leans back into his seat, arms on the armrests and his fingers steepled under his chin.

Even in the dimly lit room that the restaurant provides as atmosphere, Molly finds herself berating herself as she is unable to help but keep admiring the man seated across from her. "Oh, well, I was wondering why you haven't asked for me to explain how… how we got here." Molly wonders if she could sound any more pathetic.

His gaze sharpens, narrowing ever so subtly. "I don't need to—I already know how and why." There's the slight shift of his head when the corner of his mouth quirks up.

Molly blinks. "How do you—" she asks before she could stop herself.

"Oh, would you like me to tell you?" He seems genuinely surprised by her lack of knowing him, at least, by what it sounds in his tone of voice. And yet, she feels that it sounds more smug and confident than anything else.

Vaguely, she recalls stories about a consulting detective that Mary's husband works with and once in awhile, even Greg Lestrade mentioning a Sherlock Holmes. But, she hasn't met him quite yet as she's recently just started working at Bart's. (She counts a week—quite fresh indeed.)

Unfortunately, she's curious by how he knows without her telling him and she nods. She's unprepared for the onslaught of words that she could see is held on the tip of his tongue. 

"You're dressed nicely to what would be appropriate for a get-together — dressing to impress but not enough to draw attention to a group of friends. It's not picked by you and it's new — given the crispness of the fabric and how you had frequently tugged to adjust. Not quite yet comfortable wearing something new so recently purchased for the occasion. Your makeup was done prior to the same person you went dress shopping with for the dress — your sense of style itself is eclectic, at best. Your jacket is worn with use compared to the new, barely used bag, shoes, and dress you're wearing and clashes with the whole of the outfit — the horridly colorful scarf you have matches nothing so you're sentimental about it. So a gift — your father.

"Shopping with a friend means that this was for an impressionable first meeting. But you're alone and was expecting to meet someone else — disappointed since they didn't show. You're ignoring your mobile phone despite the off occasion that your screen lights up — probably that very same friend of yours that you were supposed to meet. Instead, you're meeting me and what I would assume is a blind date without either of our permissions or desire for one."

Molly's head spins, amazed by how much he managed to get from her without her uttering a single word. But there were details that threw her. "But how did you know my father gave me my scarf?"

He smiles, "That's easy — you lack style and understanding of fashion since you had to find someone for it — lack of a feminine touch in your life that didn't teach you how to dress and impress the opposite sex so your father."

But his smile disappears and she almost feels there's a sense of pity in his eyes. If she truly did see them, it's gone in an instant when he says, "I am sorry for your loss; was it cancer or an accident?"

She's startled and tries to ignore the grief and heartache of the loss of her father. It's still fresh in some ways, but having a complete stranger just ask out of the blue of her personal life rubs those wounds raw. Her voice is almost without feeling, clinical. "I… uhm, neither. Cardiac arrest, actually. But he went peacefully, without too much pain."

Molly closes her eyes briefly, taking a breath, and reopens them to focus on the man in front of her. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I've introduced myself. I'm—"

"Doctor Molly Hooper."

This man never ceases to amaze her that she misses the way he speaks her name—slow and meaningful as a way to remember her. "How did you—"

"John has mentioned his wife was preparing a surprise for me to, as they've put it, 'get out and be normal' two fortnights ago. His wife even seemed proud to know two doctor's and one of them included her husband so I could only assume you were the other." He smiles without humor. "Given your clinical detachment to death at even the mention of your own father's death, I could only assume you were the other doctor."

Well, she's grieving and an emotional detachment is possible since she hasn't really let herself grieve. (It's a lie to herself and with the anniversary of his death nearing, she knows it's inevitable.)

"Am I wrong?" he asks.

"Oh, um, no; you're right." She nods and their server comes back around to serve them tea. After picking out their food items, they depart and the pair is left on their own again. "... That's amazing."

"I merely observe, Molly Hooper."

She glances in his direction and thoughts swirl in her head. If he knew, possibly (most definitely now) prior to coming here, that this is a blind date, then why didn't he leave? Or better yet, why come at all? With his arrogance and seemingly bored attitude, it just seems as though this is a waste of his time. She wouldn't be surprised if she's been stood up, even by Mary. Though, she amended, Mary would never do so intentionally if she could help it. However, this had been intentional and she's not sure that the date is going as successfully as Mary had hoped. (Or even herself since it became clear that it's a blind date.).

"You're a thinker, aren't you." Again, it's another one of those statements rather than an actual question that Molly is unsure if it's a sense of being talked down to or complimented.

"How do you mean?" she asks, lifting a brow when she partakes in some of the tea.

"You silently ask questions, but stop yourself before you ask them." His eyes are boring right through her that she is unable to stop the shiver that crawls up her spine. There's something about the intensity of his eyes that not only does she not mind his scrutiny, but almost likes it. But the thought quickly dies as quickly as it forms and she feels the shame crawl up her neck. He's a complete stranger, albeit, it seems as though their circle of friends would be almost the same.

Setting down the teacup, she quirks a brow. "Then would you like me to ask the questions?"

Another one of those fleeting smiles. "Oh, yes, please — I'll hope that they aren't dimwitted." And suddenly, she wonders if he's doing that just to humor her or demean her and she feels apprehensive.

"Uhm, well, if you knew that this was a blind date, then why'd you still come?"

"Ah, you've been dying to ask that haven't you?" Her mouth opens to respond, but he waves his hand dismissively and his eyes flicker away back to the people surrounding them at their own respective tables. "I knew that Mary would most likely take John away from me and my work if I were to refuse. Her word on this being a family get together that belies a required social obligation as a premise is irksome, but social niceties are," he pauses briefly, his eyes flashing at what she now guesses as an annoyance, "needed. She knows me well enough that I can't quite refuse since we've been quite busy."

His work? Ah, he's a consulting detective. Tidbits of information begin to surface to the forefront of her mind, remembering conversations that Mary drops about Sherlock that she either finds curious, but never pushing for more or simply interesting that she tucked away for later thinking. However, now that she has a face to put to those stories, she could only imagine the havoc that some of the stories has shared.

"So, much like me, you were forced," she summarizes and sighs. She couldn't believe Mary and her husband, John, would go so far to set the two of them up. If anything, she could see Sherlock's expression almost souring the more they conversed.

Their "free" bread and sauces arrive and they're left alone again.

Relieved to have something to do with her hands rather than fiddle with the cloth napkin in her lap, she cuts herself a slice and silently offers him some. He eyes the bread briefly and shakes his head. After putting some sauce on the bread she's cut, she places it on her plate and takes a small bite, her appetite fading at the aloof nature of the male in front of her. Her stomach sinks and nibbles on the bread.

Oh, she's definitely going to kill Mary.

There's an awkward silence that falls between them that has Sherlock looking at the people around them and Molly having only enough bread to satisfy what little of an appetite she has. Molly glances at Sherlock again and wonders how they came to this at all. Her friends had often stated that she needed a boyfriend and to get out and do something with her life instead of always just staying in to do her work. To think they had taken this into their own hands to set her up on a blind date (and Molly contemplates that the last couple of blind dates all had ended terribly) and with a man that didn't or could care less for being here.

She wants to ask why he's still here if he didn't want to be here. She wants to ask if he'd prefer they end the date now and she'd go home and lie to Mary that the date just didn't work out for them. Although, that wouldn't be a lie when it's as bad as it is now so no lying there. Given how dismissive Sherlock has been for a majority of their time together, she wouldn't put it past him to just leave without warning. Still, why?

"You're thinking too loudly."

Her eyes snap to him, narrowing slightly. "Well, of course, I would be. I'm just here twiddling my thumbs, after all."

"Sarcasm is unbecoming of you, Molly."

"Well, it's not as if this is a splendid evening," she sighs. "You look like you would rather be anywhere else but here."

His eyes turn to her, sharp and narrowed. "I assure you, Molly, that I would rather be here than anywhere else." He rolls his eyes. "More so with Mary and John and how they continuously continue to hold me in contempt that I need to have a date."

His pronounced and sharp enunciation of the word "date" has Molly wince. She sighs, pouring herself more tea. "Have you known John a long time, Sherlock?" She feels the need to ask, if not to get to know the male in front of her better.

"I've known him for four years if you're counting that sort of thing." He takes his teacup and begins to take a sip. There's another furrowing of his brow but he swallows it.

"And this… putting you on blind dates is new…?"

"He's been suggesting one for quite some time if only to get me out of the flat for a few hours," he remarks idly, turning his eyes to her. "I would assume that this is not your first 'blind date' set up by Mary."

Molly vaguely recalls that Sherlock can be, well, very Sherlock when Mary describes him. Something about his attitude makes it difficult for others to understand him when his own mind is racing far more quickly than anyone else's would ever be. She's beginning to understand and finds herself still in a mixture of either thanking or killing Mary. She hasn't quite decided which would be the best course of action yet as she takes another sip of the tea.

The number of blind dates she's been on has been accruing over time that she's a little tired of them if she's, to be honest, with herself. Maybe if she and… Oh, the very idea makes her laugh at her boldness that she doubts Sherlock would even go along with the plan.

"No, not by Mary, per say, but my other friends," she replies softly. Saying it aloud how none of her blind dates has worked out must mean something and she's not quite ready to delve into the meaning.

"But, you have a plan to derail that?"

"I'm sorry, what?" She lifts her gaze from the tea to Sherlock, who's smiling.

"You have a plan to stop our… friends, from setting us up on another one of these dates, do you?"

"How do you—"

He raises a brow, but the smile hasn't changed and she finds herself—she curses herself for feeling flustered and the skipping of her heart—feeling the familiar prickling of heat curl at her neck and cheeks. "O-Oh, I… It's—It's nothing, Sherlock, really."

"Come now, Molly, you've thought of something clever and if it's any fun as what your smile indicates just seconds ago, I would assume I would be participating." But there's something in those his eyes that Molly knows he read more into her than he's letting on. Part of her wonders if she should feel grateful that she gets to say what the plan is rather than he spells it out for her that he seems keen on doing.

She takes another sip of tea and braces herself. There's a part of her that feels this would go down burning in the flames, but what's the harm?

"Well, to get our friends off our backs about dating—" How anyone can force Sherlock to date is amazing in itself but it's a thought for another day. "—how about we try dating?"

His smile disappears and a sort of frozen surprise that wipes away his smile.

"No, no! Not like that! I quite mean that we just… fake date, Sherlock. Ah, um, we pretend to—"

He raises a hand to dismissively to cut her off. "I very well know what you mean." He drops it to steeple it under his chin, his eyes pull away from Molly to stare at something (or someone) at the entrance of the restaurant. Molly is assuming he's just observing everyone that comes and goes and she feels a little disheartened by his dismissive response. She knew it's a terrible idea.

"Having us… together… would most definitely prevent John and Mary from setting either of us another one of these…" He makes a hand gesture to the vague space between the two of them and she couldn't help to wince again. It's a failed date, she understands that much, but one that garners irritation from both of them. Still, she can't help the huff of irritation.

"Sherlock."

He casts her a glance briefly and she tamps down the urge to wince underneath his sharp gaze before his attention returns to what she now understands as his thoughts when he looks distantly at the people around them.

"I can see the appeal. We can very well pretend to be together if it means both John and Mary will stop spewing nonsense about dating. And to force me to date when I have no interest."

"Oh? You don't want to—"

"No. I'm only interested in the Work."

Molly puts two and two together and manages to understand that he talks about his cases as a consulting detective. She nods, wondering if this is a good idea. "Oh, I understand. Then…? You're okay with us pretending to be boy—"

"No." A sharp resounding word cuts through Molly that she winces. Again, it's another rejection and her heart is already struggling to keep up. "We're to be mutually exclusively seeing each other, that much is certain, but not whatever those words are."

Her brows furrowed, confused. "Wait, so—"

"It's enough."

The finality of his words only has Molly sigh when he looks pointedly at her. Forging forward with a breath, she continues, "Then, after we've been together for some time, we can end it rather spectacularly in some terrible way—"

"Oh,  _ yes_, that's marvelous." His eyes are gleaming and she can't help but grin at the mischievous idea. Poor John and Mary won't know what will hit them.

He smiles then and she wonders if it's genuine or not. Still, it's nice and—

She mentally shakes her head. No, he may be an absolutely gorgeous man to look at but… she wouldn't ever show up on his radar even if she tried under normal circumstances. But, she allows herself the thought of it aiming at her for another reason that's not to mess with her friends. So far, this man has done nothing but pique her interest.

"And it'll prevent them from doing it again in the future. Very clever."

She nods, pleased that she's met his expectations. "I'd say something close to a year would be enough since, um, I trust you'll be working more than we'd ever see one another."

Sherlocks nods, shifting so that he faces Molly. "I'm glad you understand that."

"Well, of course," she replies easily. "After all, I have my own work I must get to."

Sherlock gives her a long look before he flashes a smile, one she assumes is quite insincere since it feels anything but warm. "Of course."

"So, shall we get to know one another better?"

"I trust we'll get to know one another quite well after this, Molly Hooper—of that, there's no doubt."


	2. Step One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates the ramifications of his ruse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gajillion months later, an update. _Gasp_. Beta'd by my friend Merc and [Nary](http://narycanary.tumblr.com/). Anyway, please enjoy!

The rest of the evening smoothly continues after they've more so or less settled their plans for their "relationship." It's even surprising when Sherlock finds himself in the middle of a discussion with his new, well, Molly Hooper, about specific circumstances that involves scenarios on how someone is to die if they were to consume too much of one particular chemical. They frequently jump from one compound to the next, pleasantly pleased to find the articulation in which she can keep up with his train of thought when it involved the deaths of the bodies she's researched. In fact, while he had been correct that she's a doctor, it's curious to learn that she's a pathologist. With her newly established position at St. Bartholomew, he expects that he'll be seeing her quite often; whether he's on a case or not.

Still, his non-existent expectations of the girl that John insists would be a good fit with him seems mousy, if he has to pick a word to describe her. She shrinks away whenever his eyes move to observe her, and there's a semblance of her being quite skittish around him that he assumes it must be nerves in the presence of a stranger. (He doesn't ignore the fact she's quite attracted to him; the signs are there.) But, he has to give credit where credit's due; Mary did a marvelous job at helping Molly pick the right kind of makeup and dress for her to wear.

Her hair is down, slightly curled to give her natural waves that would eventually straighten out over time. Subtle warm browns with hints of grey eyeshadow and mascara, a pleasing enough colored subdued maroon lipstick, and simple clip-on earrings with a slender, single silvery strand that ended by her mid-neck. A sweetheart cut navy dress with a sheer overlay with a collar and sheer sleeves with matching cuffs to her collar.

Simple, reasonable, and very much conscious still of what she looks like wearing it with her touching the fabric every so often.

Their "date" ends well-enough, and with plans to slowly show a developing a relationship over time, they part. Sherlock summarizes that they agree that they wouldn't go beyond just the small touches here and there and it'd be the extent of their mutual exchanges. While Molly looks like she'd be very easy to mold to how he wishes since she's shown the signs of attraction, it wouldn't be acting on her part. He frowns.

No, she'll act as well as she can act until it comes time for them to break up in a fashion that John and Mary will never set either of them on a blind date again.

It's when he gets home with Lestrade waiting that he doesn't give Molly another thought until the case takes him to the morgue.

And it both fascinates and irritates him.

If all else, Molly is extremely competent at her job—a superb pathologist that when she speaks, he doesn't find her dull to listen to. What irks him is the smug grin on John's face and the same reflexive wincing Molly does that makes her try to seem smaller than she is. Though she does gain traction in speaking when inquired about the bodies in question, he observes her cheeks becoming rosy when he's near her and John's asinine grin growing larger yet. He ignores Lestrade's questioning look between Molly, John, and himself while they go over the details of the death.

It's when Lestrade leaves—with John and Sherlock left in the morgue; Molly remains behind to clean up—that John says anything at all.

"So, uh, you two together now, right?" he asks in a way that has Sherlock roll his eyes.

"Uhm, yes," Molly answers for him.

"Come along, John, we have other things we need to attend to." He leaves the body and is about to head out the door when John continues.

"Are you sure?"

He turns slowly on his heel to face where John stands, giving him a look of doubt and skepticism. He glances over to Molly who is zipping the bag to cover the body and then slowly returns his eyes to John. "I don't think amorous advances would be advisable in a morgue," Sherlock remarks dryly.

"And, um, Sherlock and I've only just started, um, seeing each other," Molly adds.  "So, it's—it would be a little weird if we were to show—we were together quite so soon."

Sherlock notes the sense of discomfort at the lying, her body is rigid, and she's fidgeting with her hands now that she has nothing to do. Instead, she moves to her instruments and begins to organize—in which, he has no doubt they were already meticulously sorted. She's an honest girl, and he's suddenly struck with the realization that he would ruin her if they were ever to be anything other than "partners in crime."

John nods, as if in understanding, but Sherlock can see his thoughts going in a direction that he's still in disbelief and wariness that either Sherlock or Molly is lying to him. "Yeah, I suppose that's what it is."

Sherlock finds that he doesn't care since he only went on the "date" just to shut him up. His lips curl into a scowl when it looks like John doesn't believe this, not for a moment. "Yes, now, come along—we have work to do."

Again, Sherlock makes for the door without a glance back.

* * *

Four days pass before he sees Molly again and by then, he's forgotten all about her. Well, set aside their pretense of a relationship for later. Still, he's reminded of Molly when his phone rings with an incoming text.

John lifts his gaze from where he's typing up their latest adventure and looks curious before returning his attention to the laptop. "You have a text?"

**Mary has been asking about us, Sherlock…  
MH**

"Of course I do," he responds, making his expressions impassive. He decides to ignore it and places it back beside him.

"Not gonna reply?" John asks. This time, he stops typing and looks expectantly. Sherlock meets him with a withering look. "Well, if it's Molly, gonna have to, you know?"

Sherlock doesn't need another lecture from John about the social etiquette that he could care less for.

 **It's only been a few days,**  
**but she's been asking what've**  
**we did together…**  
**MH**

He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He's going to have to talk more with Molly about plans to solidify that they were indeed in a "relationship" with each other. Though, he's surprised that Molly has improvised.

 **I've told her we're going on our**  
**next date next week, if that's**  
**alright with you, Sherlock.**  
**MH**

**That's fine.  
SH**

Absently, he wonders if they necessarily need to go on a "date" at all.

**Does Mary want proof?  
SH**

"Busy any time soon?" John asks all too gleefully when Sherlock sets down his phone, trying to hide the growing smile again behind his hand. He decides, then and there, is one of John's most annoying traits, presently.

"I have no idea as to what you're referring to," he decides then to lie. Molly will share the story just fine without him needlessly talking about the… relationship. His fingers are steepled to his lips, contemplating what will happen when John and Mary find out that this relationship is merely a ruse. Each scenario ends with John being furious, dumbfounded, and regretful. But, it would play the part neatly enough to prevent John from ever thinking about trying to uselessly set him up on a "blind date."

Now that he's finished with the update to the blog, John closes the laptop. "Really? You're not going to ask me anything or-or thank me, Sherlock?"

His eyes slowly drift over to John. "And why on earth would I need to thank you, John?"

He sets aside his laptop and crosses his arm. "Because I helped set you up with a girl that's good for you, you git."

"I never asked you to."

"But you're still going to see her."

Sherlock doesn't answer, seeing as Molly would answer that for him down the grapevine. Right on cue, he sees John's phone light up and smirks. They were too predictable.

John shifts back into his seat to glance at his phone and glances back up at him. He gives him a look, "Sherlock, you can just tell me, you know, instead of just letting Molly tell Mary and then, telling me about your date." There's an obvious annoyance in his voice that Sherlock proceeds to ignore.

"Oh, but it's fun to let you figure it out amongst yourselves." He flashes a smile in mild amusement. "After all, you and Mary have decided we're to be together."

John gives him a withering look. "Look, I just want you happy."

Sherlock reads the signs saying, _And out of my hair for awhile._ How predictable, John.

His phone chimes again and he picks up the phone.

 **She says she doesn't…**  
**But I feel like she wants them**  
**regardless of what I say otherwise.**  
**MH**

Judging from her wording, Molly has tried to persuade Mary for her not to need pictures but Molly is sentimental, so it's likely she lost her side of the conversation. Ah, the sentiment is a disadvantage and clouds the mind with illogical decisions and guidelines. It's further proof that it's useless when Molly doesn't win in persuading Mary the lack of pictures is entirely unneeded.

**Pick a place, and we'll go.  
SH**

There's hesitation when she takes some time in responding. Rather than go on a date, he'd instead focus on a case. "John, don't we have another case?"

John shakes his head. "No, none that have come onto the blog quite yet."

Molly says that the "date" will take place next week. So it's highly likely that a case will happen and the date will be canceled. In which case, he supposes, Molly could spend their "date night" here at the flat.

**Dinner, okay?  
MH**

She must've deliberated on what would be a good date, and she ends up picking something ordinary. At least she didn't pick a bar or something as dull as a museum.

**Yes, bring it by the flat.  
SH**

**Oh. I don't get to pick the restaurant?  
MH**

The disappointment is as evident as the period she uses in the text, but Sherlock ignores it. The sooner Molly loses her attraction for him, the less problematic it'll be for when they end their "partnership" to fooling both of their friends.

 **Just bring dinner to**  
**221b Baker Street.**  
**SH**

There's a pause that he wonders if Molly changed her mind.

 **Ok. I'll come by after work on Friday.**  
**See you then xxx**  
**MH**

He regards the three x's with a scrutinizing blink. Romantic attachment—Sherlock wonders for the first time if he's done something that he's going to regret.

* * *

The next week passes in a flash when he's given a case that immediately devours all of his attention that he forgets about the little "date" that he and Molly have set up for picture proof that Mary so desires. (And in turn, John.) But currently, John's gone off to retire to his room on the next floor and has left Sherlock alone in his flat with the case in front of him. He's in his mind palace for a while before he finally comes out of it to find food sitting on the kitchen counter and Molly is curled up on the couch asleep.

His eyes narrow subtly and glance at the clock to note the time. Just after midnight and he knows that by habit, he'll be up for another few hours with the facts of the case fresh in his mind. Damn. His focus on the case has been more paramount that he's very nearly forgotten to keep up the pretense that he's forgotten the role he's made for himself.

How very unlike him.

But with no one around to fool about their pretense of a relationship, he speaks just loud enough to break the silence in the room, "Molly, tea?" And already he's up on his feet and heading into the kitchen. He's not making tea for her, no, he's making tea for himself, and if she wants to have some, she's welcome to it.

He watches from the corner of his eye when she starts awake, having clarified with himself that at least she's already out of her REM cycle.

"What?" she murmurs, her voice soft with sleep that he frowns. Curious. Can someone's voice be that soft when they've just woken?

Setting the thought aside for later analysis, Sherlock returns his attention to the tea and setting the kettle. Just this once, he's going to make it just because Molly is going to take forever to make it herself. (He can already see the scene of her fumbling around in his kitchen and taking far longer than necessary to make the tea.)

"You fell asleep," he states briskly. With the kettle set, he turns in his place and leans against the counter with his arms crossed. Despite the fact he'd like nothing more than to continue thinking about the case, he decides a break might be for his next breakthrough. He's stuck, and some tea might aid the trouble he's having.

"Oh," Molly murmurs, sitting upright on the settee. She rubs her neck and rolls it. With a sigh, she glances at the clock and groans. "Oh, I did—I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

He waves his hand and enters the living room to sit back in his armchair. "There's little else we can do now with the late hour."

Molly regards him with a stern look as if she understood the underlying meaning in his words. Instead of replying with words, he muses that she's probably too tired to say much of anything as a retort. "Sherlock, I might be tired, but we should still do something to… uhm, you know, prove we had a date." Even she winces at using the word "date." As much as it is anything, this is the last thing anyone expects a "date" to go.

She rubs her face when Sherlock briefly muses what's the best way of having one. Several scenarios pop into his mind that's as predictable as the rubbish telly romance movies that he's sure Molly watches plenty of. However, he's not keen on doing any of it. More like, he isn't looking forward to doing them. The thought distracts him from the case at hand, however, and the ideas quickly vanish as he focuses his attention back onto the task at hand.

"Look, we have to keep this up to make it look like we're… um, seeing each other." Molly stands up and pulls her hair out of the ponytail to shake the long locks loose with a quick rub on her scalp and run through of her fingers. He blinks, taken aback and momentarily out of his thoughts, noting the subtle smell of shampoo (strawberry? No, something herbal—sage and… grapefruit?) watching her go to the kettle. She purses her lips while she looks in the kitchen and opens, on her first try, the cabinet where his mugs are. He's sure she's unaware of the intellect behind the thought of the cabinet choice or the luck in her random pick.

Absently, he says, "The only motive we have for this pretense is to make John and Mary regret trying to set either of us up on those…" And he doesn't even bother to finish the sentence. His brow lifts when he watches her pull out two mugs and sets them down on the very little counter space that's not already filled with his vast array of experiments.

Irritation is furrowing her brows when she pours herself tea and then into the second mug. "Yes, and just think of how delightful it'll be to see them gobsmacked." She leans against the counter, holds the cup in her hands and takes a sip. She sighs in relief.

Sherlock doesn't want to do any of the things he's briefly thought of to make their plan foolproof, but if he's committed to something, he's committed. As unpleasant it would be to do such predictable acts to prove he is, in fact, seeing Molly, he's going to need to show some semblance of "truth" behind his words. The first act of business then is to get Molly used to his touch since it didn't seem like she'd ever make the first move.

"Yes, seeing their horrified expressions would be exceedingly pleasant," Sherlock notes distractedly. Despite the fact he'd rather focus on the case, Molly and their friends are forcing him to focus on something he'd rather not think on. But the sooner Sherlock gets this over with, the sooner Sherlock can return to his case. With the ideas brewing in his mind that would lead to convincing John and Mary about his "relationship" with Molly, he finds himself instead observing the subtle nuances of the woman he's "forced" to be acquainted with.

She's tired, her eyes dim and hazy from her earlier nap on the couch, lidded as she seems to be looking over the chemistry equipment with mild curiosity and interest on the top of the island in the kitchen. The longer she seems immersed in the lab equipment, the more he notes that she's precisely observing what it is his experiments are. Her eyes register what she's seeing, and it's fascinating to watch her understanding his work. Her thumb is idly rubbing the top of the handle, and the other hand cupped around the other side. Aside from the brightly colored jumper of varying patterns and the less than flattering pants that hid her form, she's a small thing, and he briefly recollects their height difference.

They did not fit together, he observes once more.

Demure, diminutive, painfully compassionate, and easily manipulated in the brief time he's known her, the only saving grace she has is that she's competent with her work in the morgue. Unlike the others that work there, she's the only one that doesn't irritate him without insulting the intelligence that got them there. (Much.) It shouldn't be too hard to make her act the way he wants should the need arises, but…

"Shall we set guidelines?" he asks, observing her reaction when she starts. Blinking owlishly, she picks up the other mug of tea and walks over to him with it. Thankfully, the tea is still quite hot, and he silently takes it.

"How do you mean?" Another wince when she seems to realize that she hasn't stopped asking him that question in the last few times they've known one another.

He takes a few sips of tea before setting it aside. He steeples his fingers again by his chin."If we're to be a— well, we're going to set guidelines so that neither of us is uncomfortable with our arrangement."

She nods, sighing and sits down across from him. Setting the tea on her lap, her hands wrapped around it, Molly's brows furrowed in thought.

"Well, what… uh, what are you uncomfortable with doing, Sherlock?"

His eyes narrow subtly, watching her when she looks at him back without averting her gaze like he expects her to. There's concern, and he's surprised that there is anything of the like in their brief acquaintance. Again, he notes that it's her painfully compassionate side that he finds…

The flimsy word he'd use to describe her disappears when he murmurs, "Whatever you are comfortable with, Molly, I'm sure I'm quite capable of performing."

 _Deflecting once more, Sherlock?_ The mocking voice he hears echoes in the back of his mind, and he immediately ignores it.

Molly hums, as if in agreement and she's staring at the tea. A few seconds pass, and she musters the courage to speak again. "Well, alright, um, let's just… um…"

"Do speak clearly," he chastises.

Curiously, he notes the subtle changes that flash through with lightning speed behind those warm brown eyes of hers. Interesting. Did he see anger?

"Well, Sherlock," she speaks with a firmer tone, seemingly annoyed. "There's _nothing_ that would make you uncomfortable?"

He watches, fascinated when Molly's back straightens ever so slightly and her eyes flares with steeled resolve.

A challenge.

Suddenly, little Molly Hooper doesn't seem quite so mousy.

"I assure you that whatever it is that you can think of in that head of yours is something that I am very well aware of and will be able to do to keep up the ruse."

He grimaces, thinking of all the cliches he's going to have to perform. After all, Molly is quite the romantic. Romance is… predictable and John once claimed (repeatedly) that Sherlock didn't have a romantic bone or even understood it.

Which isn't true since romance is an easy thing to epitomize.

However, for this "role" that he and Molly have set up for themselves, he very might have to. Even if the thought itself makes him shudder with annoyance. What a tedious task to do and he decides that it's probably best to treat this as a long undercover case. At the very thought, he brightens and—

And again, he watches the color in her cheeks flush brightly, her lips part slightly, and then her pupils dilating when her eyes slowly widen.

Suddenly, the room feels hot, and he looks away.

Molly Hooper is as expressive as a picture book, and he's apprehensive to the future that this relationship—partnership—would bring.

"Well, let's try and do the things that most couples do when in a relationship and then we'll just say when we're uncomfortable. By then, I'd have imagined we had found what we're not okay with." Molly looks pleased with her choice of words. He notes, however, there's no set boundary line, and it would make it difficult to discern where they should stop and where they could keep going.

"That's too vague, Molly," Sherlock remarks with an eye roll. "We're going to be together for nearly an entire year, but will have an end come a year, so a few months prior would be good as to when we'll stop. We're going to be quite familiar with one another."

Her cheeks become redder. Sherlock is just barely able to repress the smirk at finding how pleased he is with himself at making her so embarrassed.

"Well, we can, uh, can start with holding hands and hugs, yeah? And then, um…" She fidgets with her tea and takes a sip of it while she contemplates what else she should do.

Sherlock clenches his jaw, wondering if she's merely uncomfortable being with him or if she's only this way because they're still technically strangers. Looks like he'll have to lead the way after all.

"Molly," he says, catching her attention so that her eyes look back at him. "Let's go with the flow, shall we? And see where it takes us." He flashes a smile that he doesn't mean, and it seems to reassure her when her posture relaxes ever so slightly.

After taking a few photos (selfies, as the general public would call it) of Molly being in the flat with Sherlock while he works, Molly seems pacified with her pictures as photographic evidence for Mary for the next little while until the next time that he's sure Mary would question him and his motives. It's when she's about to leave for the night that Sherlock decides would be the best time to start practicing their levels of comfort with one another. He isn't looking forward to it, but it must be done.

"You don't have to walk me home, you know," Molly says when they're walking to her flat. "I could've taken the Tube back, and it'd be alright."

"No, this will be a good time for us to get a feel for one another, don't you think?"

Molly shoots him a look, one that's mixed with skepticism and curiosity, and then returns her attention to the sidewalk in front of her. "I think you have a better feel for yourself than you'd ever feel of me."

"We've only known one another, a week now? I know everything about you, and you don't know anything about me, do you?"

Molly pauses for some time, frowning and contemplative. He observes she's careful before she speaks. "I do know that you're an exceptional consulting detective, Sherlock and that you take only the more interesting cases. You're the first consulting detective, and you're very brilliant." Her head turns to him. "You're very eccentric and have unique tastes." And then she faces forward. She doesn't speak for another moment when her grip on her bag tightens and relaxes.

Quietly observing her, there are some thoughts that he's unable to get a read on. Like right now, there's a darkening of her expression that he's unsure of what it means since it could say a variety of things. Seeing as they're unfamiliar with each other, there are many things he has yet to learn about Molly Hooper and today; he's learned that she is _not_ as expressive as a picture book when she retreats into her mind like she is right now. How strange.

Typically, it's evident in their body language, and yet, her guard is up, and she's not letting him see a thing. Has she already learned how to hide from him in the short time they've known each other?

It's when they get to her flat's door does he appraise the area. It's dangerously inconspicuous and concerns with the lack of proper security. Even as he eyes her door locks, he knows he could easily pick the lock with ease.

"Ah, um, this is where we part, I guess," she says, smiling up at him as she stands at the door.

"Yes, you should change those locks on your door," Sherlock says, looking around for anything that seems strangely out of place, then glancing in her direction. "Anyone can pick such measly locks."

She frowns. "Oh, I… they came with the flat so—I can't very well change them—"

"You can and you will since you need to protect yourself."

"Oh, I don't have anything that's worth stealing," she says brightly. "And I—I don't think I'm in any danger. If at all."

He turns to face her, lifting a brow. _There's you to worry about_ , he thinks with a subtle frown. He knows Mary would have words if she knew what sort of place she lives. What's more, she believes herself insignificant and there's this feeling that blooms in his chest. However, he quickly pushes the abysmal feeling aside.

"Anyway, I best be, um, heading in now. Thanks for walking me home, Sherlock—"

He knows that humans were fragile creatures. Painfully so when they're the very things, he investigates on a daily basis. They're so easily breakable, predictable, malleable, and dull that he is often and always will be intrigued by the various ways they can die and can die for the most pitiful of reasons. Greed and selfishness were the frequent traits that drives insecurities and personal grudges that pushes them to the edge to such an extent of murder. It's rare to find someone as soft as Molly Hooper who still holds faith in people, let alone him. The fact they had entered this partnership without her knowing what she's getting into seems to be something that he needed to establish now.

"Molly, I'm not someone who you can be truly involved with," he cuts her off. "So don't expect anything more from me than what this relationship will entail. After all, it's just a game. So whatever I do, I do it for the game… for the result of John and Mary never setting us up again on their foolish endeavors to 'see a happy ending' from either of us."

It's the first time he puts a crack in Molly's heart.

"Oh, I see," she begins. She nods with a smile plastered on her face. "Of course, Sherlock, after all, this is all pretend so, um, yeah. I—I didn't really expect much of anything, to begin with so you-you don't have anything to worry about."

"Good," he smiles, pleased with himself. "Good night, Molly Hooper."

"Good-Good night, Sherlock," she says.

And then he doesn't see Molly for another two weeks.


End file.
